


if you lie down with wolves

by Neyasochi



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Iverson is Shiro's Godfather, Lotor and Shiro as bffs, M/M, Wolf Yokai Keith, Wolfboy Keith, witch shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 04:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19760938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/pseuds/Neyasochi
Summary: Shiro opens his eyes when the hard fall he’d braced for doesn’t come to pass. Above him looms the rustle of wet leaves and dripping rain and a pale, handsome face.“You—” Shiro stops short, transfixed by a pair of dark but distinctly human eyes, their purple irises bordered by a faintly yellowed sclera. His gaze darts higher, to the pointed, fur-tufted ears jutting up from a mane of black hair. “You’re… it’s you. You’re the one who’s been following me.”“Keith,” the man offers, voice burning low.Shiro softens, sagging against the body that grips him. “Keith.”





	if you lie down with wolves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amorremanet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/gifts).



> This is my sheith flower exchange piece for amorremanet! I hope you enjoy it :)  
> The flowers I picked for this bouquet are:
> 
> Black Rose - danger, sorrow, mourning  
> Deadly Nightshade - silence  
> Enchanter’s Nightshade - witchcraft, sorcery  
> Hawthorn - hope

Shiro wouldn’t normally be out this late, after his supper dishes have already been washed and his chickens latched in their coop; after the moon has risen high and the safety of daylight retreated til dawn. He wouldn’t normally trade the comfort of his cozy cottage for the dark, spider-strewn trees of the spiritwood, either, but… desperate times and all that.

The single candle burning in his lantern helps light his way up the winding, root-woven path— if it can be called that, narrow and overgrown as it is— that leads up the mountainside. The way isn’t quite treacherous, but it certainly isn’t easy. And that’s to say nothing of the creatures that dwell within the mountain’s forests, where the veil between this realm and Oriande is worn especially thin.

 _Yokai_. Demons. Spirits. Monsters.

But the woods are wide and sprawling, vast enough for a lone human to hopefully slip through unnoticed. They’re dark, too, the leafy canopy blotting out even the stars. And all around him, Shiro knows danger lurks, his prosthetic fingers tightening around the sword belted to his waist. 

It takes hours of searching before Shiro gathers all of the night-flowering plants he needs to help his godfather: elfroot, eglantine, hawthorn berries, enchanter’s nightshade. The plants that grow on this mountain are potent and powerful, fed by the magic that runs deep in these woods— and guarded, too, by the hungry demons and spirits that wander amid the trees.

Shiro fills the pouch of the bag slung over his shoulder with careful clippings, delicate as he minds thorns and fragile petals. And then, with haste and enough fear to quicken his steps, he turns back the way he came.

The wind through the trees rises to a howl, lifting the whitened fringe of hair that usually hangs across his brow and tugging at the loose fabric of his shirt. It’s cold for spring. Unnaturally, maybe.

As he traces his steps back down the wooded hillside, Shiro is struck by the peculiar sensation of being watched. It lifts the hair on his nape and raises goosepimples over his skin, wary as he throws nervous looks into the darkened forest around him. His footsteps fall faster as the feeling of being watched intensifies into something more like being _followed_. Stalked. Hunted.

His metal-and-bone fingers curl into a tight fist around the grip of his sword, but no attack ever comes.

There’s no sound of steps behind him, no rustle through the undergrowth. No shift of shadow as he’s set upon by whatever roams this stretch of the mountain path. Only that same, quiet sense of being trailed down the mountain, unseen eyes fixed on his every step.

A relieved sigh passes Shiro’s lips as the edge of the forest comes into sight. It’s too dark to sprint, even with his lantern lighting the way, but Shiro’s pace picks up, feet finding their way over loose stones and jutting roots. Nothing crashes through the trees after him, eager to strike before he slips out of reach. Still, Shiro turns his head to cast one last look back over his shoulder, worried.

A stroke of fear rattles his heart and opens his eyes wide.

On the path behind him, silhouetted by moonlight and shadow, stands a wolf large enough to ride. Large enough to reach Shiro in two large bounds. Large enough to bear him down to the ground and devour him in three or four bites, to rip him to pieces and scatter him down the mountainside..

But Shiro bolts, a surge of strength seeing him free of the magic-shrouded woods just in time, a sliver of a second all that saves him from the hungry yokai on his tail. And he doesn’t stop, the leather satchel stuffed with flowers thumping against his hip with every winded stride as he runs until he sees the flickering light in the windows of his godfather’s farmhouse.

* * *

It takes half a day’s riding to reach Lotor’s modest castle— if there is such a thing. Shiro is welcomed in by a door that swings open at his first rap, a few magic brooms hard at work in the foyer, and the exiled prince’s resounding call to come up to the study.

“If you’d sent word you were coming, I’d have made some dinner,” Lotor mildly complains as Shiro rounds the familiar spiral staircase, clothing rumpled from the hurried ride. With a wave, his hands begin to glow; there’s a pop, a poof of lavender smoke, and then a bakery-perfect strawberry cake sits balanced on his palm. “Some cake, perhaps?”

“Uh, thanks, but… no. Conjured food always tastes…” Shiro wiggles his hand and pulls a face, nose wrinkling. “Spongy.” 

“Maybe the way _you_ conjure it,” Lotor mutters as he sets the cake aside.

“You know I can’t do magic that advanced,” Shiro huffs. He sets down his bag and toes off his boots before flopping onto one of Lotor’s many plush couches.

“Well. Make yourself comfortable, I suppose,” Lotor says as he settles down beside Shiro, long legs crossed atop the cushion.

Shiro spares him a dry look before rummaging through his pack. “I brought you some of that soap you love from the shop in town,” he says, handing off a few bars to a well-pleased Lotor. He fishes out a bundle of carefully packed vegetables and smoked fish next. “And real, actual food from my garden. Please eat something more substantial than conjured sweets, Lotor.” 

“Since you asked so nicely,” Lotor says after a moment of rifling through Shiro’s offerings, long ears perked high as he sifts through a small rainbow of vegetables, cheese, and preserved meat. He smiles as he crunches into a deeply orange carrot. “Did you just come to check up on me?”

Shiro sighs, hands planted on his knees as he levers himself up off of the plush sofa and starts wandering the room. The wooden floors are warm under his feet, no doubt enchanted to Lotor’s liking. “No.”

Silence stretches out for a time, interrupted only by the sound of Lotor’s chewing and the crackle of a woodless fire in the hearth. “How is your godfather doing?”

Shiro grunts as he trails his fingers across the dusty spines of the tomes lining the study’s shelves, not even registering the titles. “Poorly. He’s taken another turn for the worse, Lotor, and I’m not sure what else to do. I’ve already exhausted my supply of elfroot making healing tonics— not that they seem to do much for him anymore.”

Lotor hums, gaze softening under pale brows. “Well, it’s no cure, but I can give you whatever elfroot I have on hand. I do wish… I’m sorry I don’t have a more applicable knowledge of healing magic. It’s a very particular skillset, and I—”

“I know. And I’m grateful for all the help you’ve given me,” Shiro assures him, gaze briefly falling to his own prosthetic arm. It’s all black metal and white bone, forged by Lotor in an attempt to undo the damage his elven mother had wrought. “And that’s— that’s not everything. I went… I had to go up the mountain for stronger stuff.”

“The spiritwood?” Lotor asks, clucking his tongue. “Not exactly advisable, Shiro, but I do understand your desperation. Did you find what you were seeking, at least?”

“Enough to see him through the week. After that…” Shiro will have to venture into the yokai-haunted woods again, barring some miraculous healing of his ailing godfather. He gives Lotor a helpless little shrug and adds, “I, um… I had a close brush with a sizeable wolf out there. A yokai, I think.”

“A wolf, you said?” Lotor questions, his sleek eyebrows raising. “Describe it.” 

“Uh… large. Wolf-shaped. It followed me for some time,” Shiro says, still wondering over it, “but never went for the kill. Just watched and waited.”

“Sounds like you encountered an _okuri okami_.” Lotor offers a small smile before pouring out some of his encyclopedic knowledge. “As far as brushes with wild spirits go, you could definitely do worse. They’re known for following travelers, and the good news is that so long as an _okuri okami_ is following you, you need not fear any other demon approaching.”

“Oh.” Shiro sits with that little bit of good fortune for a moment, pleasantly surprised. “So it’s a protective spirit?”

Lotor’s expression draws in tight, nose scrunched. “Um, no. Not exactly. It’s more that the _okuri okami_ is so dreadful that no other yokai will even attempt to stand between it and its next meal.” 

“Oh. Well, that’s comforting,” Shiro deadpans, a cool sweat rising on the back of his neck. “But… it never tried to eat me.”

“All spirits have their peculiarities,” Lotor reminds him, shrugging. “Penchants, preferences, internal rules they abide by. And this kind of yokai only attacks when its prey stumbles or falls. As long as you mind your footing, I don’t think it can even approach you. And better still, its presence may even save you from crossing paths with a hungry demon that has fewer reservations about whom it eats.”

Shiro meets Lotor’s bright smile with a pointed frown. “Great. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I feel eyes on my back in the middle of the spiritwood.”

“Would you like me to join you next time?” Lotor asks, propping his elbow on the back of the couch so he can rest his chin in his palm. “I’d be rather interested in meeting such a rare spirit, actually.”

“No. No, you’ve done more than enough for me, Lotor,” Shiro brushes off. “I’ll let you to your own business. But if you feel like making the trip, you’re more than welcome to come by for dinner with us.”

Pale eyebrows draw up as quickly as they settle back into line. “One of your famous dinners. How… tempting.”

“Hey, I’m not half bad.” Shiro shoots the half-elf a dark glare as he finishes lacing up his boots. “I’ll let you know I’ve gotten dozens of compliments on my fish pie. _Dozens_.”

“I’m sure.” Lotor smiles in his usual fashion— faint and enigmatic, bright eyes already roving elsewhere. “I’ll think about it. Allow me to do some research first, see if I can find a text that might help you. Or barring that, try to locate a more competent healer.”

A book slides from a nearby shelf and floats past Shiro’s head, pages fluttering as it’s summoned to Lotor’s hand.

“Show off,” Shiro teases as he grabs his bag and makes for the door. He pauses, metal fingers curling around the doorknob. “And thanks, Lotor.”

* * *

When Shiro returns to the spiritwood again the following week, he finds it changed. 

It’s the thickness of magic here that does it, the nearness to the spirit realm of Oriande. Like a living, breathing creature all its own, the forest reshapes itself day-by-day. The path up the mountain is broader than last time, its slope rising in a different direction; the stone and trees alongside it have crawled into new places, new positions. 

It takes Shiro longer to find his way toward a copse thick with the herbs and flowers he needs to aid his godfather’s recovery, his breaths coming in rapid little puffs as he searches. And as he finally kneels down in the darkened, moonlit grasses to fill his bag, he wonders if the wolf will find him again.

His answer comes when he returns to the path, a shape at the corner of his eye stilling him as surely as a basilisk’s stare. It sits waiting for him some thirty feet up the path, silent and unmoving. Shiro knows well enough that the wolf only has eyes for him— they’re pinpricks of gold in the darkness, like distant stars shining directly where he stands.

With a deep breath and steeled resolve, Shiro musters the courage to turn his back on the hungry spirit. And then he waits, his short sword half-drawn.

No snarl comes. No teeth close around his nape, no claws sink into his spine. He remembers to exhale as he takes his first shaky step, moving slow and certain to ensure he gives the lurking _okuri okami_ no reason to devour him. 

The trek back down the mountain seems to take ages, every minute drawn out by tension and the looming fear cast by the wolf following him. Whenever Shiro chances a look back, he finds the _okuri okami_ watching him from afar. The gap between them never grows, never lessens. The wolf only moves when he does, silent as a shadow, watching with luminous golden eyes whenever Shiro takes pause.

It follows even after Shiro leaves the forest behind, which chills him down to the marrow in his bones. It slinks after him as he passes fields tall with rice and wheat and pens filled with nervous livestock. When Shiro climbs the steps of the small porch leading to his cottage, he turns and finds the wolf seated some thirty feet away, still watching. 

Though his throat is dry and sticky, Shiro nods his head and manages a quiet, “Thank you for seeing me home.”

The yokai’s pointed ears flick in his direction. Its massive, fur-maned head tilts. And then, in absolute silence, it rises and pads its way back toward the mountain and its haunted woods.

\- - - - ---- - --- ---- - - --- ---- --------------- - --- - --- - - - - -

It’s the same way the next three nights Shiro ventures up the mountain for his potions materials, driven to gather enough fresh flowers and herbs to see Iverson through another week.

The wolf finds him sooner each time, stalking his steps like a living shadow. And the distance it keeps shrinks, little by little, until Shiro can look back and see details he’d never noticed before— the purple hue to the darkness of the yokai’s fur, the size of its fangs, the intelligence sparkling behind yellowed eyes that glow like fireflies.

But Shiro remains surefooted, and the wolf never has reason to pounce. He takes to leaving an offering outside on the steps for the hungry _okuri okami_ each time he makes it safely home— a dish of water first, and then milk, and then a whole side of smoked trout. The spirit doesn’t seem likely to abandon its hunt for him any time soon, after all, and some goodwill between them is better than none.

The potency of the plants from the spiritwood carries into every spell Shiro crafts and every potion he brews. The townspeople he sells to notice the difference, as does Iverson. 

There are days where his godfather can stand and walk again, though he still needs Shiro’s support. His appetite returns, along with the color in his cheeks. Iverson even jokes that he might bounce back from his deathbed after all, grousing over the time he’d apparently wasted on getting his affairs in order.

And Shiro can’t let him backslide. Not now, when they’ve come so far and are so close to seeing Iverson through the illness that had swept him off his feet and nearly out of Shiro’s life. Even a week of torrential thunderstorms and one doggedly persistent _okuri okami_ aren’t enough to deter Shiro from doing what he must to take care of what little family he has left.

In a heavy, oiled cloak and tall boots, Shiro trudges through the wind and rain toward the mountainous spiritwood. 

By now, the shifting path almost feels familiar. Shiro can’t tell if the wolf yokai is already watching as he clings to slender tree trunks along the trail for stability, the soles of his boots slipping in the mud. Rain worms under his cloak and drips down his collar. It wets his shirt. It sluices down his boots and soaks his socks, making every step squishy and miserable.

The wind and rain batter against him as he frantically plucks up elfroot and black roses with both hands, paying no mind as the thorns prick through his gloves and into his skin. The cold sinks into his bones as he turns to leave, drenched from his rain-plastered hair down to his waterlogged boots. It weighs on him like something physical, a shiver trembling through Shiro’s muscle as the wind digs under his cloak just right, the chill knifing wherever it finds gaps.

And, through the haze of fallen rain and nighttime darkness, Shiro finds a familiar shape waiting for him on the path.

If the wolf minds the downpour and the accompanying cold, it doesn’t show it. Pointed ears remain perked. The rain seems to glance off of its purple-tinted fur, leaving it gently misted rather than matted wet. Golden eyes survey Shiro just as watchfully as ever.

Shoulders stooped under the steady rainfall, he nods toward the looming wolf spirit and then carefully picks his way downhill.

But not carefully enough.

For the first time upon the mountain, Shiro falls.

It feels like a loose patch of gravel, wet stone rolling underfoot. His arms swing as he loses his balance, and in a heartbeat Shiro will be laid out on his back— easy prey for the _okuri okami_ who has been hunting toward this end for weeks, waiting for the moment he’d slip to bare its fangs.

Shiro never makes it to the ground, though. 

He opens his eyes when the hard fall he’d braced for doesn’t come to pass. Above him looms the rustle of wet leaves and dripping rain and a pale, handsome face.

“You—” Shiro stops short, transfixed by a pair of dark but distinctly human eyes, their purple irises bordered by a faintly yellow sclera. His gaze darts higher, to the pointed, fur-tufted ears jutting up from a mane of dark hair. “You’re… it’s _you_. You’re the one who’s been following me.”

“Keith,” the man offers, voice burning low.

Shiro softens, sagging against the body that grips him. “Keith.”

Seconds drip past like the rain still working its way down through the surrounding trees, leaf by leaf. Shiro stares up at the yokai’s new form as he waits for his promised fate, mind gone woefully blank as he surveys features fine and sharp and unmistakably attractive. _Damnably_ attractive, despite the demon’s ill-intentions.

Heat settles uncomfortably under Shiro’s wet skin. There’s a tension corded thick between himself and the spirit still holding him, wound tight with anticipation unacted upon. Shiro’s gaze slips sideways, to the darkened woods, and then back, surprised to find Keith’s expression unchanged— no snarl, no wolfish fangs, no hungry maw opened wide. 

“Aren’t you going to devour me?” Shiro whispers through the rush of falling rain and low thunder, barely audible.

The somewhat severe line of the wolf spirit’s brow lessens, then shifts, pinching tight. Confusion flashes in the wells of dark eyes. “No?”

“Oh.” The flush continues to creep up the back of Shiro’s neck, warm and embarrassed. He shivers, half from the cold and half from the intensity of Keith’s stare, and tenses in the cradling hold of the wolf spirit. “I can probably stand on my own, then.” 

With a soft grunt, Keith helps him stand. But he doesn’t let go of Shiro, even for a moment. His hand lingers on the metal of Shiro’s arm, sliding up around the curve of his shoulder to steady him. “Careful. The path is slippery.”

“So I’ve realized,” Shiro almost laughs. It stops short in his throat when he glances down and realizes Keith isn’t wearing a shred of clothing, rivulets of rain coursing down bare skin. He averts his eyes just as quickly, mouth snapping shut as he tries to recall whether Lotor ever mentioned anything like this.

 _This_ being the resident wolf yokai’s apparent ability to take the most seductive human form imaginable, lean and strong and generously proportioned. And _entirely nude_ , too.

A hand slips under Shiro’s sodden cloak and settles at the small of his back, warm amid all the wet and cold. He shudders again. 

Keith surely feels him tremble, even if he says nothing. He crowds in closer, in eerie lockstep with him as they wind their way down the mountain path together, unfazed by both his own nakedness and Shiro’s bumbling efforts not to turn and stare.

“Are you going to escort me all the way home?” Shiro asks as Keith steadies him through another slip on the muddied path, clinging fast to the yokai in his desperation not to fall.

Under the drape of his cloak, Keith’s hand moves to curl around his hip. Even bare naked and showered by the torrential rain, he’s unbothered. “Like always, yeah.”

Shiro doesn’t know what to say. Though every inch of him is soaked, head to toe, his mouth feels dry and his tongue heavy. It’s surreal, being guided home by the very same yokai he’d feared and warily accepted for weeks. And as thunder quakes the air around them and rain blankets the fields they trudge through, Shiro is grateful for the help.

His legs are quivering by the time they reach his little cottage on the edge of Iverson’s acreage, its windows dark and its modest garden buckling under the rainfall.

Keith sees him up the steps, only letting go when Shiro has braced himself against the heavy front door. Under the shelter of the porch roof, Keith wrings out his long hair and then gives a shake that sends droplets of rainwater flying. His tall, wolfy ears twitch backward, still damp, finally showing some annoyance at the miserable weather.

With shaking hands, Shiro undoes the clasp of his cloak and lets it fall in a wet pile at his heels. It’s an effort to fit his key in the lock and wrench the door open, and upon its threshold, he looks back. 

After all Keith’s done to bring him home, Shiro can’t just leave him outside to suffer in the cold and rain. “Would you like to come in?" 

Pointed ears perk instantly. For the first time, Shiro notices a dark tail curled behind Keith. It gives a faint little wag.

“Y-yeah,” Keith says, eyebrows lifting high. “Yes. I’d like that.”

With a murmured spell and some dry fireweed, Shiro starts a blaze roaring in the hearth. His gaze skirts around where Keith stands in the middle of the cottage, arms crossed and ears twitching.

He clears his throat. “Would you mind, uh, turning around?”

The yokai squints, wary. “Why?”

“So I can change. I’m soaking wet,” Shiro emphasizes, gesturing down to the simple clothes that are plastered to his skin, clingy and translucent in places.

Keith stares for a few moments, lips parted, and then abruptly turns on his heel.

Shiro eyes the _okuri okami_ ’s back in this human form: handsomely broad shouldered; dark, shaggy hair that hits his shoulders and a pair of matching wolf ears; a slender waist Shiro could probably fit his hands around; the rigidly held tail that juts out just above the muscled curves of his rear. And then he shucks off his own clothes, miserably chilly and damp, and shimmies into a dry nightshirt.

While touseling his hair with a towel, Shiro takes a few cautious steps toward Keith. “Would you like some clothes?”

An ear swivels toward him before the rest of Keith’s body follows. He’s leaner than Shiro and smaller of frame, but there’s an unmistakable power in every wiry inch of him. “Don’t need them,” he shrugs, arms still crossed over his bare chest.

Shiro sighs, eyes fluttering shut. There’s a heat rising in his cheeks, and he isn’t sure whether it’s a fever setting in or just the sight of an ethereally handsome man standing naked in the middle of his house. “It might be… more comfortable. For both of us.”

Keith looks doubtful. His weight shifts from one foot to the other, balanced on long, lean legs that can probably run for miles without tiring. His uncertain, furtive gaze settles on a woven blanket hanging over the back of Shiro’s reading chair. He points. “I’ll wear that.” 

“Alright,” Shiro acquiesces, shoulders sagging. It’s better than nothing.

Or so he thinks until he approaches Keith with the blanket in hand and is met with an expectant stare, the yokai making absolutely no effort to don the blanket himself. Awkwardly, Shiro drapes the cover around Keith’s shoulders and then offers up the towel for his long, dripping hair. 

With both of them somewhat dry and dressed, Shiro hurries to spread the plants from his satchel out over his work table. His fingers brush the stems apart as he checks for bruising, crushed blooms, wilted leaves. If he’s going to make a strong enough tonic to help buoy his godfather, it has to be brewed before dawn.

“You do magic,” Keith observes as he pads around the edge of the room, looking from the petal-strewn oak of Shiro’s crafting table to the shelves lined with worn books and glass jars.

Shiro smiles, a touch nervous. “Not especially well, unfortunately. But I take care of the town’s needs as best I can. And my godfather, too.”

He knows this recipe by heart now. Dexterous fingers sort leaves and petals into his mortar. Shiro adds the rest of the ingredients by feel, sifting and pouring while Keith intently watches him grind everything together and then divvy it up into seven slender vials. 

“You could sit somewhere, if you’d like,” Shiro offers, glancing up for just a moment. Or he only means it to be a moment, at least. Instead, he ends up staring as Keith makes a beeline directly to his bed and settles down comfortably on his quilts, one leg crooked and the other dangling off the edge. 

Shiro hastily swallows down whatever feelings the sight raises. It’s been far too long since he’s had another man in his bed— let alone one as stunning as Keith, nearly undressed and casually sprawled just a few feet away. And it’s definitely the first time Shiro’s played host to any kind of yokai, much less one that could probably eat him whole if he had half a mind to.

His hands move a little clumsier with Keith watching. His cheeks burn, too. As Shiro absent-mindedly slices up mandrake root and shaves weirwood, his thoughts drift to how the hell he’s going to make it through the night— but it’s less out of fear of being eaten and more a mounting concern over the sleeping arrangements.

His bed _can_ fit two and Keith _does_ seem mighty comfortable on it. The little cottage offers few alternatives. Having a guest sleep on the rug in front of the hearth is absolutely out of the question, but Shiro is no keener on taking up that spot. Other than that, the best he can come up with is offering to share his bed with the ruggedly pretty wolf spirit he only just met.

The one that considers clothing completely optional.

Shiro curses under his breath as the knife in his hand suddenly slips, its blade skidding over the mandrake and instead catching on the pad of his thumb. A drop of blood wells up, vivid against his skin.

“Here,” Keith says, beside him in the blink of an eye. Shiro startles, but the hand curled around his wrist is surprisingly gentle, its claws soft on his skin. “Let me.”

 _Let you what?_ are the words that don’t come. Instead, Shiro nods, a stream of burbled nonsense moving past his lips in place of coherent thought, and allows his hand to be drawn toward Keith’s mouth. He stands rapturously fixated as those lips part and the tip of Keith’s tongue shows, slivered and pink behind gleaming canines.

And that feverish feeling that’s dogged Shiro all night returns in sweltering force as Keith presses his tongue against the bleeding pad of his thumb. It scorches the heights of his cheekbones and sears at the back of his neck; it floods his veins and stokes a furnace deep in his belly. It quiets the last of his attempts to say something sensible, rendering him incapable of more than a wavering, breathy sigh.

Shiro’s tongue ties itself into an even tighter knot when Keith draws his whole thumb into his mouth, wet heat closing in around it. He feels liable to faint by the time Keith lets him loose with a quiet little _pop_ , apparently satisfied with licking his cut clean.

“Better?” Keith asks as he offers Shiro’s hand back to him.

“B-better?” Shiro manages through a mouth that feels stuffed full of cotton. Still breathing hard, he drags his stare away from Keith’s dark eyes and finds his thumb sticky with saliva and entirely free of blood. “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

While Keith starts sorting delicately through the leftover herbs that’ll go toward making tonics for the townspeople, Shiro washes his hands and dresses his thumb with a little salve and bandaging. Keith’s tending to it was… noteworthy, to say the least, but Shiro’s dealt with enough spoiled wounds to place his trust in soap, medicine, and magic.

“What’s your name?” Keith asks while flipping disinterestedly through a borrowed volume on the applications of salt and sea vegetables. 

“Oh. Oh, it’s Shiro.” He smiles after, surprised. “You’ve been tailing me so long now, I figured you knew it already. Somehow or another.”

“No more than you knew mine,” Keith shrugs. “I wanted to ask for the longest time, but— uh, it’s hard. Spirit bonds and the like. Not being able to get close to you until you finally slipped.”

It’s curious, the way spirits work. Shiro can only think of how fascinated Lotor would be if here were here tonight, able to converse with someone from the spiritwood without fear of it being a lure or a trap. He’d ask a hundred questions, endlessly curious, and fill a book of his own with observations.

… So maybe it’s best he isn’t here. Keith doesn’t seem like the type to enjoy an academic interrogation.

Shiro is more careful as he slices the rest of the mandrake and chops it small, well aware of Keith’s eyes trained attentively on him. “So, you were waiting to talk to me,” he clarifies, “and not to eat me?”

Keith stares back with an intensity that reminds Shiro of the wolf he is, despite the velvety rasp of his words. “I might’ve thought about eating you for a minute,” he admits. “But only a minute.”

Shiro finds himself fixed on the points of Keith’s canines while he speaks, mulling over the admission. If Keith wanted to hurt him, to kill him, to eat him, he already could’ve. Several times over tonight alone, even. 

“This is what you kept coming up the mountain for?” Keith questions, coming to stand just behind Shiro. “Ingredients for your potion-making?”

“I need to help my godfather. Things that grow in the spiritwood are stronger,” Shiro shrugs, glancing down Keith’s figure from the corner of his eye. “They make for stronger magic.” 

Keith only hums and gives a little nod, agreeing. He watches over and around Shiro’s shoulder, so close that his heat touches Shiro’s chilly skin and quickens the beat of his heart. 

Shiro doesn’t miss it when Keith leans in another inch and lets the tip of his nose brush the bare, damp skin at his nape; nor does he fail to notice the chest-deep breath that Keith draws in, swallowing down his scent. He almost leans into it, even, sorely tempted to press back into Keith and take comfort in his touch. It’s been whole seasons now since he’s been kissed or fucked, and longer still since he had someone stay with him all through the night.

A searingly warm hand settles at the small of Shiro’s back to steady him as he sways on his feet. And it doesn’t budge once Shiro is sure on his feet again.

“You smell good,” Keith says against his shoulder, voice low and gravely. His palm smoothes over the soft, easily rumpled fabric of Shiro’s nightshirt, slender fingers curling just above his hip. “You always have, but…” 

“Smelled me often?”

“Couldn’t help it. You carried on the wind, through the trees. I hunted halfway across the forest for your scent,” Keith tells him. 

“Me?” Shiro fumbles as he pours water steeped in elder leaves into the row of vials, spilling it onto his crafting table. The wafting steam surely isn’t doing any favors for his already beet-red face.

“Yes, _you_. Who else?” Keith asks, dry amusement seeping into his tone. He makes a soft grunt, near enough that Shiro can feel the accompanying puff of warm air. “You work quick.” 

“I have to. Potion-making is fickle business.” An art and a science, with plenty of room for variance and error. “Speed and precision grant better yields.”

“Am I distracting you?” Keith asks, hesitance and concern creeping into his tone. The hand curled on Shiro’s waist begins to draw away.

“N-no! I mean— yes, maybe,” Shiro says, head swinging toward Keith. His cheeks go hot. “I-In a good way, though. And I’m nearly finished.”

Shiro sighs out shakily as he pushes cork stoppers into the bottles, sealing up the silvery, shimmering elixir. Keith’s chin presses against his shoulder as he lays them one-by-one into a scarf-lined basket where they’ll wait til morning.

Two strong hands settle on either side of Shiro’s hips as soon as he finishes sweeping his crafting table clean. They flex around him, kneading his chill-sore flesh even as Keith’s nose and forehead butt gently into Shiro’s back.

And it feels good, despite the needling little worry in the back of Shiro’s mind. Keith could turn right now and crush his neck in a maw greater than a bear’s; he could probably kill him even like this, in the shape of a man with wolfish features, his bare hands easily strong enough to grind and break bone.

But… he hasn’t. Not yet. And not anytime soon, it seems— his intentions toward the lone, foolish human to wander in his woods seem of a _different_ nature.

Awkwardly, and with a little accidental elbowing, Shiro turns around within the loose caging of Keith’s arms until they’re facing each other, front to front.

“Would you like to sleep with me?” he asks, the blunt words softened by his exhaustion, by his readiness to fall into bed with this stranger he’s only met today despite knowing the shape of him for months now. Shiro stiffens up, the small of his back arching against the edge of the table, chest pushed out. “We can share my bed, I mean.”

Keith’s dark eyes alight. The tip of his tongue slips out and streaks across his lower lip, leaving it wet. “I’d like that. Thank you,” he adds after, softer than his usual smoky rasp, a hand trailing appreciatively down Shiro’s front.

Shiro nudges his thigh between Keith’s legs— subtle at first, and then firm enough to draw out a guttural groan— and gently eases Keith back a step. It gives Shiro just enough space to slip to the side, past Keith, a little bit of the woven blanket he’s wearing pinched between his fingers.

“I’d sleep outside your door on some nights. Listen to you sing while you worked,” Keith croaks as Shiro gently tugs him along, the confession soft and breathless. He’s openly eager to follow, his ears perked high, attentive. “I’ve never wanted to be so close to someone before.”

“You could’ve said something sooner,” Shiro tells him, only the slightest bit exasperated as he leads Keith to the bed. It’s barely wide enough for the two of them, but they’ll fit. “Spared me a little waiting and worry.”

Keith’s smile turns enigmatic. And a touch shy, as well— the shyest Shiro has seen out of him. “That’s not how it works,” he mumbles. “I couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t _do_ anything. Until you slipped, I could only shadow you, pace by pace.”

Shiro reflects on the eight or nine trips he’d taken up the spirit-haunted mountain at the dead of night, his steps tailed by the eerily silent wolf that kept a measured distance from him. Watching. Waiting. Bound by the unfathomably strange customs and constraints that spirits abide.

“I’m glad you were there to catch me,” Shiro says, receiving a brighter smile for his words. The backs of his thighs hit the edge of the mattress; without looking away from Keith, he settles down on the edge, still clinging to the blanket draped around the yokai’s shoulders. “And thank you for making sure I got home safely.”

“Of course, Shiro,” Keith says. With a fluid shrug, he lets the blanket covering him slip to the floor, fabric pooling around his ankles. He sighs, clearly more comfortable without the scratch of woven wool against his bare skin, and steps in close, towering over Shiro where he sits on the stout-framed bed.

And this time, as Shiro looks upon the yokai’s exposed body, it’s with a flush of anticipation rather than embarrassment. His hands travel up lean sides, palming over Keith’s ribs; he leans forward and touches his lips to a smoothly muscled belly, eyes cast up at Keith. 

Keith, who toys fingers through his hair and heats under Shiro’s kiss, blushing all over. Whose sharp nails trail their way down the back of his neck, those strong, slender hands almost possessive in how they cradle Shiro close. Keith, who makes no bones about his intent as he rips loose the laces of Shiro’s nightshirt and yanks it over his head, hungry to have him naked, too.

As Shiro lies back on the mattress, he draws Keith down with him, pleased to be covered and kissed; grateful to be pressed deep into the downy cushion of the bed as Keith wedges himself between scarred thighs and leaves biting kisses all down his front. The rain continues to beat heavily all through the night, striking at the panes of glass in the windows in a staccato that nearly drowns out the low peals of thunder above them— but it can’t come close to masking the way Keith makes him howl, whether it’s with his back arched off the bed or his cheek pressed into his pillow or caged in a pair of lean arms, his ears filled with growls and sweet murmurs in a tongue he doesn’t even know.

* * *

Shiro wakes with bare limbs tangled around him and hot breath misting at his nape, drowsy with a warm satisfaction that kept him slumbering well past dawn. As he stretches his limbs and shifts within Keith’s clinging embrace, a dull ache below his waist leaves Shiro wrinkling his nose and groaning into the pillow.

Keith’s size hadn’t been entirely unexpected— Shiro’d gotten an enlightening glimpse when the yokai first assumed his human form— but the swollen knot at its base… _that_ was a first. And not a bad one, either, although Shiro suspects he’ll still be feeling it for days more. 

The arm around his middle curls tighter, pulling Shiro flush against a compactly muscled chest and the heat of an unnaturally warm-burning body.

“Keith?” he questions, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice. “Are you awake?” 

A sleepy grunt answers him.

“Good morning,” Shiro tries again, patting the calf of the leg currently hiked high and hooked over his hips.

A longer moan comes next, coupled with lazy movement as Keith wriggles even closer to Shiro, happily spooning around him.

“Morning. You smell good,” Keith mumbles, lips moving against the curve of Shiro’s spine.

“Oh. Thanks. It must be the honey soap from the market in town. I use it all the time.”

“No,” Keith says, a deep breath drawn in right after. It’s minuscule, but Shiro still feels the little twitch of Keith’s hips against him, soft cock still resting against the curve of his ass. “ _You_ smell good.”

“Really? Because I think I mostly smell like you now.” Not that it’s a bad thing— he rather likes the smell of pine and juniberry that clings to Keith even after so long away from the woods. Judging by the contented little sigh that slips out of the yokai, Keith’s none too bothered with Shiro wearing his scent around, either. 

Shiro sits up in the bed, winces, and finally catches sight of himself in the silver-framed mirror perched on his nearby desk. A mess, head-to-toe. His hair looks like an unruly bird’s nest, whipped wild by Keith’s tugging fingers and more than one sloppy lick up the side of his face, right over his ear. His skin is mottled with dark hickeys and the ringmarks of fanged bites, up his throat and down his chest, some even dotted along his inner thighs. And his hips bear the telltale bruises and delicate clawmarks of Keith’s… overwhelming ardor. 

Shiro tilts his head, angling to better see a particularly spectacular lovebite along the side of his neck. His fingertips brush around its borders, delicate as he admires the mark and thinks of the bruising kiss that left it.

Behind him, Keith sits up as well. He looks almost as wrecked, his hair tangled and his furred ears askew in odd directions, still droopy with sleep. His pretty mouth is still reddened, a trail of hickeys laid over his hips and under his jaw. Reddened lines left by blunt nails criss-cross his shoulders and flanks, along with faint bruises the width of Shiro’s prosthetic fingers. 

They both got a little carried away, Shiro supposes. He can’t recall the last time he awoke so thoroughly satisfied, fucked to the point of pleased exhaustion and then cuddled comfortingly close all through the night. Waking to a dozen vivid reminders of how good he just got it is hardly any kind of hardship, and the longer Shiro looks at his reflection, the more he likes the look of Keith’s touch on his skin. And the more he enjoys the thought of Keith— the yokai who could rip him apart, if he were so inclined— clasping his teeth around him so tenderly, so possessively, holding him tight and desperate. 

Keith yawns, baring fangs that Shiro finds increasingly adorable, and then unceremoniously rests his chin on Shiro’s shoulder, violet-tinged eyes sliding shut again.

“Still tired?” Shiro questions, tone turned teasing. “Did I wear you out?”

“Just not used to waking so early,” Keith mumbles, blindly turning to nose into the side of Shiro’s neck and pillow soft kisses atop the fading lovebites he left the night prior.

Shiro hums and tilts his head to offer Keith better access, enjoying the sleepy show of affection. It’s wonderful to be touched again, to be comforted so tenderly by someone he’s laid with only once. Fine-boned knuckles trail along the dip in his spine; artful fingers trace the lines of muscle laid over his hips, along his inner thighs.

Shiro inhales. “Can I touch your ears?” 

“My ears?” Keith asks, his roaming hands startled still. The ears in question twitch to attention. He shuffles even closer, practically plastering himself against Shiro. “Yeah. Anytime. You don’t have to ask to touch me, Shiro.”

It’s sweet, the way Keith looks at him. Almost puppyish, and Shiro can hardly believe that this is the same yokai whose spirit form looms in the shape of a wolf as large as an ox, eyes aglow and wicked fangs gleaming under the moonlight.

“Ah, they're so soft,” Shiro breathes out as he cups his hand around one of Keith’s fluffy-furred ears, thumb gently brushing up along its edge.

Keith enjoys it, judging by the needy little grunt low in his throat and the way he leans heavy into the touch, pressing for more. Shiro acquiesces and rubs both of his ears, reminded oddly of petting his godfather’s farm dogs after they’ve done a good job; the swishing wag of a wolfish tail across the sheets doesn’t really help the comparison.

“You know, aside from the ears and the tail and the fangs, you look very much like a human.” Shiro runs a thumb playfully along the seam of Keith’s smiling mouth, gently pushing up to expose one sharp canine. “Not at all like the stories of yokai I grew up hearing.”

Keith snorts, close to rolling his eyes.

“What do humans know of us anyway?” he asks, looking tempted to nip at the finger still stroking along his lip. Or perhaps just to mouth at it, to lick it sticky wet as he seems wont to do. “And I’m not… my father was human. From the other side of the mountain, though.”

“Was?” Shiro murmurs. His stare softens as Keith quickly lowers his gaze and shakes his head, not keen on talking about it. And that’s fine. More than fine. Shiro has no inclination to exhume his own tragedy-struck family history for discussion, either.

Instead, Shiro quietly marvels at Keith anew— the dark purple of his irises, the sharp beauty of his features, the faintest lavender markings along his body, only just visible by daylight. And he’s surprised to catch Keith studying him just as intently, his curious stare lingering over the metal and inlaid bone of his arm and all the messy scars etched into his skin.

But that’s a long and upsetting story to tell, and Shiro has responsibilities that beckon.

“It’s late in the morning,” he says as he gives Keith’s hair one last little ruffle and moves to the edge of the bed. He winces as he stands, the walk toward the basin of water by the bathtub stiff-legged. “I need to bring those potions over to my godfather’s house and check on him.”

Shiro splashes his face clean and hurriedly wipes away the worst of the mess dried across his belly and down the backs of his thighs with a wet rag. He’s halfway into a clean shirt and trousers when he glances up at Keith, still sitting on the bed with the covers pooled around his slim waist.

“You’re welcome to stay here, if you like. Or… you could join me,” Shiro offers, though he hasn’t the first idea of how to explain Keith to Iverson. “But you have to wear clothes, Keith. Or come as a wolf.”

With a low grumble, Keith accepts some of the old clothing Shiro pulls out from the trunk at the foot of his bed— shirts and drawstring pants from his years before the war, when he was shorter and slighter. Keith lifts the collar and gives it a sniff, nose wrinkling at the smell of the herbs used to keep fabric-nibbling moths away. 

“It’ll fade,” Shiro promises, buttoning up Keith’s shirt and drawing his long hair forward to help cover the few hickeys that peek above the collar.

He fixes a quick breakfast for the both of them and then they’re off, Keith devouring his smoked salmon-topped toast in three voracious bites and then polishing off Shiro’s, too. 

The walk across from Shiro’s small cottage to the farm’s main house isn’t terribly long. Ten minutes, maybe, with Shiro taking extra care with the woven basket holding all of his strongest potions. He snatches a peach from a nearby tree as they pass the small orchard and tosses it to Keith, who gobbles that down as well. 

“I’ll make you something more filling when we get to my godfather’s place,” Shiro says as he watches Keith contemplate eating the peach pit, too. “We have plenty of salted meat left over from winter.”

Iverson’s dairy cows and sheep scatter to the far end of their pen as he and Keith approach, bleating and baying in a panic, unfooled by his human shape. The dogs like him, though, all four of them trotting over to eagerly nose at Keith for pets. The cats flock to him as well, much to Shiro’s surprise.

“I’ll wait out here,” Keith says as Shiro shows him to the farmhouse door. He tugs at the hem of his shirt, clearly uncomfortable with the confines of human clothing. The dogs circle him excitedly, their tails wagging; Red brings over a hefty bone and drops it down at his feet.

Shiro flashes him a smile. “I shouldn’t be too long. Feel free to come in if you change your mind, alright?”

Keith nods, but as he looks past Shiro, he seems wary. Of the house and its four broad walls, maybe, or the unknown human within it. Of any closed space that isn’t the cozy, one-room comfort of Shiro’s cottage, familiar even before he’d been allowed inside.

The halls and rooms within the farmhouse are dark and faintly musty. Shiro goes round throwing the curtains open, first, letting daylight filter in. He lingers in front of one, smiling softly as he watches Keith and the dogs chase each other round and round. It’s faint, but he thinks he can even hear little peals of Keith’s laughter. Upstairs, Shiro slips into Iverson’s bedroom. His grip on the basket is white-knuckled as he treads across the floorboards and settles gingerly on the edge of the bed. And in the quiet, he waits— 

Just long enough to see his godfather’s chest rise and fall with breath, to feel his skin still warm. Shiro sighs out, relieved.

It doesn’t take much to rouse Iverson. He never sleeps well anymore. Not without some elixir to help hold the pain and discomfort at bay, and even then… 

“Takashi?” Iverson asks as soon as he blinks awake, still looking haggardly exhausted. “Morning already, huh?”

“It sure is,” Shiro says, already rummaging into the basket for two glass vials. He sets one on Iverson’s nightstand, close enough to grab if he needs it desperately, and holds the other in-hand. The rest Shiro will store down in the root cellar, cool and dark, until they’re needed. “How did you sleep?”

“Like shit,” Iverson grumbles, as bluntly honest as ever. While Shiro uncorks the potion, he cranes his head and squints out the nearby window. “Who’s out there with the dogs?” 

“Oh. Uh, a guy I met,” Shiro says as he turns and looks out the window, too. There’s enough distance that Keith’s ears blend against his dark hair, his tail lost amid those of the dogs jostling around him. “He… followed me home.”

“From town?” 

Shiro nibbles his lower lip for a moment. “From the spiritwood.”

“From the— oh, gods damn it, Takashi,” Iverson sighs. A broad hand smooths its way down his face, tugging at somewhat sunken features. His one eye fixes on Shiro with the weariest look he can muster. “You know, when I said I didn’t think any of the guys in town were good enough for you, I didn’t mean you had to go find one in the forest.”

“Ha ha,” Shiro deadpans as he helps his godfather sit up. With a hand on Iverson’s back to steady him, Shiro carefully tips the vial of healing potion past dry lips. “It’s more that _he_ found _me_.”

“Yeah? And did he do that to you, too?” he asks, a gnarled finger hooking in the fabric of Shiro’s scarf, exposing the mess of lovebites it hadn’t quite hidden. Iverson scoffs at his godson’s stammer and blush, his eye closing shut as the magic sinks in, swift and powerfully potent. 

He smiles through the strong herbal taste, whistling low as he reaches for the pitcher of water left on his nightstand the evening before. He eyes Shiro over the rim as he drinks. “You know, I met a yokai once. On the battlefield. A scavenger. Takashi… to them, we’re a nuisance at best. Prey, at worst.”

Shiro leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tight together. He shakes his head. “Keith’s not like that.”

“Oh, so you’re on a first name basis,” Iverson huffs. “And what’s Keith like, then? Awfully human name for a spirit. And an awfully human shape. Can they look that much like us?”

“Keith can. He says he’s half human,” Shiro says, inching forward. It’s hasty, he knows, but he trusts Keith; he wants his godfather, the closest family he has, to trust him, too. “And he’s kind. He’s protective. Intense. Loyal. He helped me down the mountain last night, through the dark and the rain. He took it upon himself to make sure I made it safely home every time I came down from the mountain before as well.” 

Iverson’s skeptical concern doesn’t vanish, but he’s not as unbudging as he tries to seem. As he looks out the window to where Keith is cavorting with his dogs, he softens. “Well,” Iverson sighs, lips pursing. “If the dogs like him, he can’t be too bad.”

\- - - - ---- - --- ---- - - --- ---- --------------- - --- - --- - - - - -

The potion grants Iverson enough strength to pull himself out of bed and stand, just a little winded as he makes his way to the washroom to clean up and change his clothing.

While his godfather enjoys the little burst of freedom, the hour or two where he can move and live unfettered by pain and weakness, Shiro returns outside to get started on the day’s chores. He brings with him a sandwich generously filled with seasoned pork and a sliver of leftover pie from two nights prior.

Keith’s presence unnerves the animals in the fields, and Shiro doesn’t miss the way Keith’s eyes track the movement of the flock, as if assessing the choicest prey.

“Hungry?” Shiro asks, stepping directly in his line of sight. Deeply purple eyes settle on him instead, lingering on the exposed skin around his collar before rising to meet his waiting stare. He offers the sandwich. “I brought you something.”

“This is for me?”

Shiro shrugs and scoops up a forkful of peach pie, chewing it thoughtfully. “I thought you might like it. If you’d rather something else, you could come inside and pick something more to your tastes?" 

“No. No, this is good,” Keith says, leaning against the fence beside Shiro and taking a cheek-stuffing bite. He labors to chew through the high-stacked sliced pork, not looking bothered in the slightest by the overly-generous portion of meat. When he speaks, it’s around a mouthful of half-chewed food. “Really good. Thank you.”

“Glad you like it,” Shiro smiles. “My godfather doesn’t really have it in him to eat much these days, unfortunately. But that means the pantry’s awfully full. If you want more, don’t be shy about asking.” 

Keith spends a while chewing. “What’s wrong with him?”

Shiro sighs. “No idea. None of the physicians in town were ever able to pinpoint it. All winter long he grew worse. I’d hoped that warmer weather would help him recover, but…” He shakes his head. “What little I know of magic and potion-making could barely slow it, so I went looking for stronger ingredients—”

“Up a mountain in the dead of night, a lone human traipsing through a spiritwood,” Keith supplies, deadpan.

“A fool’s errand, I know.” But then Shiro smiles, feeling cheeky, and leans toward Keith. “Luckily, I had someone watching my back the whole time.”

Keith smiles as he takes another enormous bite, his cheeks coloring with a faint blush. “Someone had to keep you alive,” he mumbles as he chews, shooting Shiro a look that feels faintly chastising. 

Shiro lays a hand on Keith’s shoulder, his fingers squeezing against firm muscle and unyielding bone, reminded again of the strength packed into the yokai’s narrower frame. “Thank you, Keith. Not only did you save my life, but my godfather’s too. I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

Keith considers him as he stuffs the last of the sandwich into his mouth and licks his fingers clean. “All the food’s a nice start,” he gently teases.

“You like it? Really? People usually tell me my cooking’s atrocious,” Shiro laughs, scooping up a forkful of congealed peach filling and slightly burned crust. “Here, try this.”

Keith opens his mouth and lets Shiro feed him, eagerly closing his lips around the generous heap of homemade peach pie. The fork is clean when Shiro slowly withdraws it and judging by Keith’s soft, close-mouthed moans, he’s a fan.

“Tastes good,” Keith murmurs, already eyeing what’s left on Shiro’s saucer. His smile is hungry, wolfish, borderline sly. “Not as good as you, but…”

Shiro laughs softly as Keith draws him down for a soft, lingering kiss, his mouth still tasting of cinnamon spice and sugar. He groans into it, loving the feel of fingers raking through his hair and creeping under the hem of his shirt.

“Ah, I can’t,” Shiro says as soon as they break, just as breathless as Keith is. “I need to water the garden and thatch the roof and tend the animals. And they’re a bit… terrified of you. Do you mind?”

“No. No, not at all,” Keith says, straightening Shiro’s collar and tucking his shirttails back in.

“Thank you,” Shiro says, bending to kiss Keith at his temple, then his cheek. He presses the pie saucer into Keith’s hands. “You finish it. There’s more in the kitchen if you want it. You could rest inside for a while, if you like. Or head back to my place?”

“Or I could help you,” Keith says, although he frowns when he looks out into the pasture and the flock immediately scatters away.

“Keith, you’ve done more than enough for me already,” Shiro huffs, cupping his hands around Keith’s handsome face, his fingers lost in waves of thick, dark hair. “I’m not going to ask you to help me work the land, too. Go enjoy yourself.”

Keith stares back at him, the deep purple of his eyes shining under the sunlight. He turns his head just enough to kiss the underside of Shiro’s wrist, lashes fanned out impossibly long as he closes his eyes, his ears lowering into a subdued droop.

“I might go hunting, then,” Keith whispers before planting his face squarely into Shiro’s chest, right between his pectorals. He breathes in deep. “Get out of these clothes for a while.” 

Shiro’s shoulders move with a short little laugh. He folds his arms around Keith in a hug, cheek resting atop the crown of his head, a furry ear twitching against his lips. “There’s a pond out back you could go skinnydipping in if you’re so eager to run around naked again.”

“I won’t be naked. I’ll be in fur,” Keith mumbles against him, rubbing his face affectionately against Shiro’s front. “I might be gone a while, though.”

“That’s fine. Take your time. I’ll be busy around here all day,” Shiro says before seeing Keith off with one last kiss. 

And then he toils hours under the sun. In the fields, feeding animals and leading them to greener pastures, checking on the few pregnant animals. In the orchard, filling buckets with ripe fruit. Around the farmhouse, clearing the gutters and mending the thatched roof.

Come sundown, Shiro turns in to wash up and is surprised to find only Iverson inside. He treads outside, squinting in the failing light, wringing a damp hand-towel as he hunts high and low for Keith. He’s not by the pond, nor in the barn, nor anywhere in the surrounding fields. The dogs sleep upon the porch. The farm animals mill around their pens as they ready for sleep, unbothered by the scent of a wolf in human form.

All Shiro finds is a sloppily folded set of his own old clothing, the borrowed shirt and trousers left sitting atop a rung of fence near the house.

Shiro bids Iverson goodnight and hurries home with a lantern, Keith’s clothes draped over his arm. He wonders if Keith is still hunting, so many hours later. Or if maybe Keith had grown weary of waiting for him to finish raking animal pens and climbing around on the roof and trotted on home. Time and again Shiro looks back over his shoulder, hopeful for the silhouette of a wolf or a man— whatever shape Keith’s decided to take, so long as he’s still with him.

But nothing follows.

Shiro’s stomach sinks lower when he finds his porch barren and his cottage sitting dark. He lights the fire in the hearth, warming the house with golden light, bright enough to be a beacon. And then he sits and waits by the door. And then out on the porch. And then he paces the perimeter of his cottage, trying to see in the dark, calling Keith’s name in case he’s lost. 

Not that he can be lost. Not when he’s followed Shiro here dozens of times before, even under starless, moonless skies.

Shiro retreats inside to worry over whether Keith is lying in the woods somewhere, dead or injured— and then he shakes that thought aside. What could kill Keith? What could even hurt him? Even the other yokai in the spiritwood shied away after Keith began to shadow him.

Hours tick by and eventually Shiro puts out the candles one-by-one, slowly letting darkness engulf the room. 

He knows so little about Keith, about yokai, about their needs. For all he knows, Keith _couldn’t_ stay, bound by some need to return to his home on the spirit-haunted mountain. Or perhaps Keith just… lost interest. He wouldn’t be the first, and Shiro can hardly blame a man as extraordinary as Keith for growing bored of the mundane day-to-day of his life here. 

Shiro changes the sheets and beds down alone, face pressed into his pillow, still faintly hoping for the sound of sharp nails on the wooden boards outside.

* * *

“Where’s your friend?” Iverson asks, stirring under the stack of quilts and woven blankets that help to keep him warm. Even the effects of the spirit-infused potions wane in time— quicker by the day, it seems, the dire disease consuming Iverson slowly outstripping all of Shiro’s efforts to heal him.

“Haven’t seen him. Not for a few days,” Shiro says, words soft as he jams his feet into his boots and silently does up the laces. Maybe the next time he heads up the mountain, Keith will find him again. Or maybe he’s really and truly moved on, as lonesome wolves do. 

Iverson sighs and stares out the window, looking forlorn on his godson’s behalf. “How is Lotor?”

“Same old. Filling up books with his research and hardly ever leaving his estate. I was thinking of riding out in a few days’ time to see if I can borrow a few more ingredients from him… I might take some of the vegetables from the garden along with me, if you don’t mind.”

“Take whatever you need, Takashi,” Iverson tells him. Weakly, he nods his head toward the bedroom window, where the morning sunlight settles over the fields and trees outside. “All of this is going to be yours anyway. You know that, don’t you?”

Shiro freezes halfway through tying the last knot. Lips thinned, he tugs the laces tight and starts over. 

“You’ve more than earned it,” Iverson continues. “Been helping out around here since you were a little sprout yourself. This land’s been in my family since my great-grandfather first cleared it with just an ass, a plow, and—” 

“And his own two hands,” Shiro finishes for him, nodding along to the oft-repeated story. “I know.”

“And I wouldn’t trust it to anyone but you, kid.” A weathered finger catches Shiro under the chin, tilting his head up. “Hey. Don’t worry. My life might be winding down, but yours isn’t.”

The words make Shiro’s heart quail, the impending reality too much to placidly accept. He jerks away from Iverson’s touch and buries his head in his hands, trying to _think_. “It’d take a fortnight, but if I went east and found you a proper healer… Lotor could come watch over you while I’m away. I’m sure he’d agree—”

“Takashi,” Iverson sighs. “You’ve done a hell of a job keeping me chugging along. Hell of a job. But you’ve taken on enough risks for an old man like me, alright?”

Shiro’s jaw works side to side, tongue drawing itself into a knot. If he opens his mouth, there’s no guarantee anything but tears will come. So instead he nods, stiff-lipped, and stands up straight. At the bedroom door, he manages a quiet, “I need to feed the ducks.” 

Outside, he can lose himself in the routine of work around the farm. He draws water up from the well and pours it down irrigation channels he’d dug out as soon as the earth thawed. He repairs the sagging roof of the shed and jars the excess peaches from the orchard, spicing them with cinnamon.

And then he takes a simple lunch of bread smeared with fresh goat cheese, not hungry enough for anything heavier. For dinner he throws together a simple stew and sits by Iverson’s bedside, telling him all about the crops coming in and the calves growing strong.

Come dusk, Shiro is only just finishing up shearing their small flock of sheep. It’s a task he meant to finish earlier in the week, but the days never seem long enough anymore. He can’t fathom how he’ll ever manage here alone, bereft of all the family he ever knew.

Shiro dumps freshly sheared wool into the woven basket beside him by the handful, murmuring soft comforts as he carefully trims the last sheep. There’s just one fluffy haunch left when a sudden, panicked bleat startles Shiro. He drops the shears into the grass, afraid he’d somehow nicked the poor animal without realizing, and patiently smooths his palm down her neck.

But the sheep still pulls frantically against its tether, unfazed by Shiro’s efforts to calm her. The rest of the flock jostles in their pen, wild-eyed and frantically bleating, mothers circling tight around their lambs.

And at the corner of Shiro’s eye, he spies movement. A shape. A hulking silhouette.

A wolf. One unnaturally and impossibly large, nearly as large as an ox, its fur darker than the shadows stretching long across the farm.

Shiro stands, but not before loosing the panicked sheep so that it can flee to the other end of the pasture, by the pen where the rest of the animals huddle for the night.

“Keith,” he says, taking a few strides toward the massive yokai before halting in his tracks. He lowers the hand he’d raised to wave, uncertain, but smiles all the same. “You came back.” 

Silent as the stars, Keith trots to the fence. His furred head easily clears the upper rung of wood, muzzle stretched out toward Shiro.

In his mouth, clutched firm but delicate, is a whole bouquet of flowers. 

Flowers like none Shiro’s ever seen before. Petals like dawnlight made loosely solid, more magic than material. Leaves that shimmer and trail dust like moth scales. Stems like endlessly multifaceted crystal, veined with shimmering gold.

As Keith’s maws part, Shiro’s hands delicately pull the flowers loose, mindful of the two-inch fangs peeking in between sparkling stems. Gentle, gentle, he cradles the unearthly blooms close to his chest, shocked by the warmth they radiate.

By their wan, golden-hued glow, Shiro catches sight of a slick, dark line carved up Keith’s furred cheek. A slice, long and deep enough to scar, the tacky blood clinging to it almost black under the fading light.

“You’re hurt,” Shiro breathes, running a hand through the dense fur covering Keith’s neck. Even with the glowing, ethereal flowers cradled in his arm, it’s too dark to tell if he has any other grievous wounds. “Come inside with me, Keith. Let me take care of you.”

A damp nose and the short, soft fuzz of a wolfish muzzle press into Shiro’s hand. Gold eyes flutter shut, a low whine hanging at the back of Keith’s throat.

“Are you hungry?” Shiro continues, skimming his hand up the span of Keith’s unharmed jaw and scratching at one tufted ear. “There’s some leftover stew that I think turned out pretty well.”

That perks Keith’s interest. Shiro clambers over the fence, careful of the flowers in hand, and when he looks up again, Keith is human. Or as close to it as he’s ever been, with those ears and that tail.

The slice on his cheek looks worse against pale skin, more agonizing, but at least the rest of him is only bruised. Without thinking, Shiro steps forward and loops an arm around him, angling Keith against his side. He doesn’t miss the quiet little sound Keith makes against his shoulder, not unlike a whimper.

Keith’s strong enough to stand and walk on his own. Shiro knows it. But it doesn’t stop him from looping an arm around Keith’s narrow middle and encouraging the spirit to lean on him as they wander up to the farmhouse.

The dogs jostle and sniff at Keith’s bare, wobbly legs, making worried sounds as Shiro helps him inside the kitchen and into the first chair he sees.

“I brought them for your godfather,” Keith says as he watches Shiro tenderly place the starlight flowers into a makeshift vase. “Make your potion with those and it should cure just about anything.”

Shiro wavers on his feet, stunned, swallowing so thick that he feels he might choke. He stares at the gossamer petals, soft as sunlight, and wonders where Keith trekked to find them, and who or what he fought to bring them back. “I… Keith, you didn’t have to.” 

“I know,” Keith croaks, his eyes fluttering shut. “I wanted to, though.”

“It was dangerous, getting these.” Shiro still doesn’t know what they are. He doubts even Lotor would know, despite all the exiled prince’s knowledge of Oriande and the spirits that cross over from it. “You got hurt on my account, Keith. This is my fault,” he whispers, staring at the wicked slice carved up Keith’s cheek as it drips dark, shimmery blood onto the kitchen floorboards.

“No, it’s not. It’s nothing,” Keith says, as if Shiro can’t see the way he winces when he speaks. “It was worth it.”

Shiro sighs and drags another chair close so he can sit steadily while he tends to Keith. 

It’s a nasty cut, but it could’ve been worse. Keith’s lucky in the same way Shiro was, left with a wound shallow enough to scar rather than cleave through bone. He washes it gently with fresh well water and a bottle of antiseptic solution, flashing Keith small smiles whenever he feels like grimacing instead.

And once it’s clean, Shiro darts down to the cellar and uncorks a small vial of the healing potion originally meant for his godfather. “It won’t keep it from scarring, but it’ll close the wound and ease the pain.”

“Thanks,” Keith says before throwing his head back and tipping the elixir down his throat, nose wrinkling. But the effect is almost immediate— the exposed flesh along his jaw and cheek heal back over, leaving a strip of slightly darker, shinier skin. His lesser bruises disappear completely, while the worst and darkest of them fade to an ugly greenish-yellow.

While Keith marvels at the change in his own body, Shiro slides a bowl of rewarmed stew in front of him, complete with a chunk of only slightly stale bread. “This’ll help get rid of the taste.”

Keith shovels down the oxtail and potatoes like it’s his first time eating in days. Which, Shiro supposes, might well be the case. And after, as Keith leans back in the chair and appears satisfied, Shiro sets a warm cup of sweetened tea in front of him.

“How do you feel?” he asks, carding his prosthetic fingers through Keith’s hair, thumbing along the edge of a pointed ear.

“A lot better,” Keith answers, voice ragged at the edges. “Thanks.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Shiro says as he leans over the table to kiss Keith’s forehead. His voice firms up as he adds, “You could’ve said something to me before you took off, though. I thought you’d left for good.”

“If I’d told you what I wanted to do, you’d have tried to stop me from going.” Keith states it like a matter of fact… which it is. 

“Of course I’d have stopped you! Look at what _happened_ , Keith,” he cries, staring at the mark crossing his cheek, thumb delicately brushing along its healed-over edge. “If something could do this to you, then it could’ve killed you just the same…” 

“Shiro,” Keith says, turning to kiss Shiro’s open palm. “I’m fine. Really. I’d rather you worry about taking these home to brew your potions. They won’t last til morning.”

Shiro sighs, knowing it’s true. The last thing he wants is to let the gift spoil, wasting all the risk Keith took on his behalf.

“What are they?” he asks, trailing a finger along the edge of a translucent, shimmering petal.

Keith shrugs. “I’m not sure they have a name? But they definitely have a reputation. You won’t find anything better or rarer for healing.”

“Thank you,” Shiro says, thinking of his godfather lying in the bed upstairs, no better than he was when Keith was last here. “I— thank you. Keith, you’ve saved me more times than I can count. My godfather, too. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, you only need to say so.”

“Anything?” 

“Absolutely anything,” Shiro repeats as he steps in close, smiling as Keith reaches up to toy with one of the buttons down the front of his shirt.

“I’d like to walk you home.”

It’s such a simple request, even if Shiro expects more will inevitably come of it— a night in his bed, a meal in the morning, and kisses and ear rubs and anything else Keith might want of him.

Still, Shiro can’t help but tease.

“Walk me home… like _that_?” he asks, letting his gaze drop ever so slow down the front of Keith’s bare form, admiring the lean muscle of his body, the dark hair that trails down his belly, the shape of his soft cock.

“It’s this or I wear your apron home,” Keith teases back. He stands, the chair scraping lightly over the floor, and pillows his head against Shiro’s chest.

“It’ll be fine. It’s dark and Iverson’s asleep. You’ll only scandalize the cows and chickens.”

Despite clearly having no issue in roaming anywhere butt naked, Keith shifts back into his wolf form as soon as they’re outside. The animals rustle nervously in their pens and stables, but the pair move quickly along the path that cuts along the back of the acreage, the way lit by a lantern in Shiro’s right hand and the strange flowers in his left.

There’s no conversation while Keith stalks beside him in his wolf skin, so Shiro fills the nighttime air with song instead. It’s soft and lulling, brief to fit the little jaunt back to his cottage. All the while, his hand stays fixed on Keith’s furred shoulder, or his flank, or the ridge of his spine, fingers threaded through soft fur.

\- - - - ---- - --- ---- - - --- ---- --------------- - --- - --- - - - - -

The animals get used to Keith. Eventually. Kind of. 

“Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Iverson belts out as the lamb in his arms kicks its way free at the first whiff of Shiro and Keith strolling up to the farmhouse. It scampers back to its mother, bleating softly, and keeps a watchful eye on Keith as he kneels down to ruffle the dogs’ fur and gingerly pet the cats.

But it’s less fear than they used show him. The even cows let him feed them alfalfa and apples, albeit at arm’s length.

Iverson stands with a groan and pulls Shiro into a hug first, clapping him hard on the back. Keith is next, his eyes wide as he stares at Shiro over the old man’s shoulder.

“I’ve got a venison pie cooking,” Iverson announces, clapping his hands together. He waves them both along, leaning down to ruffle the dogs’ fur as they race past him and up toward the house. “And I bought a cake from Hunk’s bakery while I was in town. Hope you boys are hungry.”

“Starving,” Keith says, gaze lingering on the flock as it mills nervously around the pasture.

“Patience, Keith,” Shiro chides, hooking his arm through Keith’s and tugging him along, following his godfather’s lead.

They fall into step as they trace the footpath toward the house. The windows are open, the building airy and alive again, and the wafting smell of dinner is met by some serious sniffing on Keith’s part. While Iverson hurries inside to pull the savory pie from the oven and let it cool, they take their time amid the fallen leaves sparse wildflowers, lingering under the autumn sun and wispy-thin clouds.

Keith’s hand snakes against his own, palm sliding over palm, dextrous fingers winding through Shiro’s and lacing tight. “Shiro… would you mind if I brought my mother down here for dinner one night? To meet you?”

“Of course, Keith,” he answers, squeezing Keith’s hand tight. “This is as much your home as ours. She’s always welcome here, too.”

Shiro’s not quite prepared for Keith to turn and sweep him into a lung-bruising hug, though it’s far from unusual for the yokai to express his affection in physicality rather than words. He groans as Keith inadvertently lifts him an inch from the ground, the toes of his boots dragging over the soil.

“Although,” Shiro wheezes out, “a little advanced notice would be nice. I’d like to get the animals safely in the barn before they smell her coming and bolt.” 

“Hah. Good idea,” Keith agrees as he sets Shiro down and lets him loose— but not without a kiss, first. He plants his hands on wide shoulders and stretches up on his toes, calves taut, their noses nudging together as he presses his lips firm against Shiro’s.

With a smile that Keith must feel, Shiro tilts his head and deepens the kiss, their open mouths meeting together with building zeal and desperation. Hands slide down to hold Shiro by his waist, to pull his hips closer, all of Keith’s whipcord body leaned onto him like he’s thinking about bowling him over and onto the ground here and now.

“Lunch’ll be cold if you two keep that up much longer,” Iverson calls out the kitchen door, clucking his tongue in mock disappointment before he ducks back inside 

Keith’s shameless, his tongue dragging over Shiro’s lips one last time before letting him go and stumbling back a step; he grins as he wipes his mouth dry with the back of his hand, endlessly amused at how easily Shiro blushes and turns apple-red whenever Iverson catches them at it. 

“We’ll settle this after we eat,” Keith says, voice dropped to a hush, playfully conspiratorial as they climb the last little hill toward the house. His hand cups around Shiro’s and holds fast, already sniffing after the sumptuous scent of cooked venison and pie crust.

“Behind the big haybale in the orchard?” Shiro suggests in a matching whisper. Iverson’s never stumbled upon them out there— not yet, at least— so they ought to be uninterrupted.

A hint of a fang shows in Keith’s smile. Though he says nothing, the enthusiastic wagging of his tail gives away his feelings on the proposed tryst. “Wherever you want, Shiro,” he says as they take the steps together, greeted by mewling cats and panting dogs and the clatter of dishes as Iverson sets the table. “I’d go anywhere for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Extra: 
> 
> Shiro is NOT a good cook, but neither was Keith’s dad. Krolia and Keith both find something comforting in Shiro’s chaotically seasoned, often burned, occasionally underdone dishes. And with their prolific hunting, Shiro and Iverson never run short of wild game to prepare for family feasts.


End file.
